


thieves and detectives of every age

by orphan_account



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: A Comedy of Terrors, Alternate Universe: Supernatural Elements, F/F, Happy Homosexual Halloween Everyone!, Juno's Thing For Peter's Teeth, Other, POV Multiple, Peter Nureyev's Sharp Teeth, Plot in later Chapters, Poor Familial Communication, Set Between Man in Glass and Tools of Rust, as a plot point, ditto - Freeform, spookyfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:13:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27210256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Legend holds that the crew of the Carte Blanche is made up of the most skillful, cleverest, boldest humans in all the galaxy.Well,legendis a little mistaken on one of those fronts. It's not the skill — every member is well-practiced, trained from a lifetime of necessity. Nor the cleverness, though it certainly manifests itself in different ways.Boldis true as well, for sure, and they're most definitelyin the galaxy, to the dismay of aristocrats and big pharma.It's what remains that's the catch.(Updating daily until Halloween!)
Relationships: Buddy Aurinko & Vespa Ilkay & Peter Nureyev & Rita & Jet Sikuliaq & Juno Steel, Buddy Aurinko/Vespa Ilkay, Peter Nureyev/Juno Steel, Rita & Juno Steel
Comments: 7
Kudos: 45





	1. tingles and tears while we're gazing

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO AND WELCOME TO LEO OPALDAWN'S HALLOWEEN EXTRAVAGANZA FIC. its got everything you could want. monsters of all sorts. homosexuals. cliffhangers. bisexuals. sharp teeth. wordplay. a little bird told me there'll be some lesbians later on. rita, tomorrow. and the PURE AND UNDISTILLED ESSENCE OF HALLOWEEN! im talking jumpscares. im talking dark alleys. im talking howling. at. the. full. moon. letsgoooooo
> 
> i phoned it in a little bit for the title of the fic bc this is really the hardest part of writing one. chapter titles are from tally hall's turn the lights off because i had a scene phase two years ago. 
> 
> PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE leave a comment if you found this funny! or if you found Very Normal Human nureyev hot. or if you hated this a whole lot and want me to know how i ruined your day. comments are booooo-tiful

Night and day look about the same aboard the Carte Blanche, the only thing differentiating them being the sunlamps in the main corridor. The bit of the galaxy that they're currently flying through is deserted, far enough from the sun that everything's muted and dusky without the main lights, nothing in sight outside the floor-to-ceiling, tinted-glass window but some distant asteroids and space junk. 

The beam of a flashlight circles on the wall like a full moon as Juno Steel, ex-PI, pads softly down the main hallway of the Carte Blanche. Well, tries to, anyways. Stealth had never been his forte, and he keeps his senses primed for any followers. 

A midnight rendezvous. A culmination of a week's worth of flirtations and discussions, everything that had been building to a head since the night of Nova Zolotovna's gala. He'd rolled his eyes at first at the drama of all of it, but can't deny that it's a little bit thrilling. Jaded, he is, no question, but not too much to enjoy some theatrical, carefully-crafted sneaking around. 

He makes it to the meeting quarters, dimming his light before entering. The room is cloaked in shadow, every corner pitch-black and every creak of the ship far more sinister than simply gears and mechanisms. Holding his breath, extremities tingling with nerves, he lifts his flashlight, casting it slowly across the room. 

Nothing immediately jumps out to him (or at him), but he's been a private eye for twenty years, and something about the room is off. His chest tightens a little, which is stupid because he's been in stakeouts and shootouts ten times higher-stakes than this. It's just. _Spooky._ As much as he hates the word, it's the best way he can describe it. 

The flashlight's beam flickers once, and then fades out. _Goddamnit._ He decides to take the coward's way out, feeling his way along the wall. 

Just as his hand hits the side of the lightswitch, a voice cuts through the darkness.

"You're two minutes late, detective." 

Back in his twenties, Juno'd picked up a real nasty habit of swearing, and it returns with a noisy vengeance right then, as he stumbles backwards, bashing his elbow on the wall. Well, so much for being quiet. He just hopes he hasn't woken anyone up. 

"Jesus Christ," he pants, flicking on the light. Damnit. The armchair in the center of the room, the one that Buddy liked to sit in during meetings, was turned to face the wall. He's not too surprised that he hadn't noticed, not in the flashlight's narrow beam, but it's still infuriating. No less because he _knows_ who's currently inhabiting it. 

Nureyev, all nearly seven feet of him, unfolds from the chair and stalks over to Juno, every angle and sharp edge thrown into sharp relief in flickering shadow against the wall. He's wearing a ridiculous (and, Juno's id supplies, ridiculously attractive) outfit; a gauzy shirt with billowing sleeves, tucked into high-waisted black and distractingly form-fitting pants. His shirt is unbuttoned almost all the way down, showing off an expanse of tan, scarred chest that Juno can't help but stare at as he approaches. 

Nureyev wraps his long arms around Juno's shoulders— god, Juno's missed this, the grounding physical contact, the heady scent of his cologne— and traces his fingers along Juno's collarbone.

"Did I startle you, dear?" 

"You kidding? I just like to yell and fall down sometimes." Juno wants very badly to kiss him, but they've only done so a few times so far, chaste and gentle. And he doesn't trust himself _at all_ to keep it that way, not with the adrenaline still in his veins. 

Nureyev places his hand against Juno's chest in a painfully tender gesture. "Your heart's _pounding_ , Juno." He sounds oddly reverent, almost _hungry_ , and not at all tired like the hour would suppose. 

"Really," says Juno. "Guess I gotta get that checked out." 

The arms around him tighten, the scent of Nureyev's cologne almost dizzying. Not nearly as much, though, as Nureyev's mouth against his jaw, pressing open-mouthed kisses down his neck.

Huh. He isn't a PI anymore, but he's starting to deduce what sorts of ideas Nureyev have in mind for the night. And also starting to deduce that he has some sort of an oral fixation— even after he pulls his mouth away after a few wonderful moments, he's running his tongue along his sharpened teeth and absentmindedly pressing a finger to his lower lip. 

"Juno, darling," he proposes, "what do you say we take this back to someplace more private? We don't have to do anything… indiscreet," he hastens to explain. "We could just talk if you'd like, like we've been doing. But I worry that if we make too much noise out here, we might wake the captain."

"Sure. Talk." Juno's still trying to get his bearings again, and the mysteriously beautiful man pressed up against him isn't helping. "Let's go, then. Steal me away for whatever wicked plans you might have."

Is it his imagination, or does Nureyev flinch at that? Maybe he just doesn't like the implication that Juno's something to be _stolen_. He files that away. 

The two head back to the hallway of the living quarters in relative silence, Nureyev's gloved hand (god, this man is too much, who puts on _gloves_ for something like this?) resting on his shoulder. 

"Your room or mine?" Juno asks. 

"Mine," Nureyev replies instantaneously, smirking privately at something he must find funny. He opens the door to his room— and then, before Juno has a chance to so much as glance inside, slams it shut with a gasp. 

Juno watches as the color drains out of his face. He looks… really upset, for some reason, upset and more than a little terrified. 

"Ah. Juno. I've— I seem to have— forgotten that my, uh— my room is in a. It's— I have some—" he's no longer blanched, now blushing furiously instead. "I may have… accidentally… I was, you see, I was—" Juno doesn't think he's ever seen Nureyev tongue-tied, and the detective in him comes out. Something's _up._ The game is, so to speak, afoot. 

"I simply, you see, the truth is, I was having a snack whilst working on Buddy's mission assignment. And I forgot to, ah, to clear up after it."

As dumb as a justification as it is, Juno knows the telltale signs of Peter's lying. He may be the only one in the galaxy who can recognize the earlobe-tug, the upper-arm-itch, no matter how much Nureyev's worked to hide them.

Which is why he's blindsided by the fact that Nureyev _doesn't_ appear to be lying about this. For one reason or another, he's become suddenly sensitive about his messy room. "Nur- Ransom, it's no big deal, really. I'll make sure I don't slip on the banana peel or whatever's in there. You've seen my office, you know I'd have no grounds to judge you for something like that." 

"No, no, Juno, I—" He looks even more distraught, and as much as Juno respects healthy displays of emotions, he really has better ideas for the night than comforting a grown man literally crying over spilled milk. 

"Okay, fine. My room, then."

"What about your room?" There's something shifty in Nureyev's voice, now, like he's trying to pull off a con or something.

"...we can go there? Nureyev, what the hell is up with you tonight?"

"Nothing! Nothing, Juno, darling, I swear. I'm simply a little bit tired." He clearly fakes a yawn. "Let's off to your room, then."

Juno crosses the hall and opens his door, watching Nureyev through squinted eyes, and steps in. Nureyev doesn't follow. 

"You coming in or what?"

"Of course, Juno, um, one second. I'm afraid I—" He chews at a manicured nail with his front teeth, looking from side to side desperately.

"Nureyev." Juno's, frankly, sick and fucking tired of this. He doesn't know whether he's done something wrong, something to put Nureyev off, whether Nureyev remembered their last night spent together and has reconsidered everything the last week has implied, and the _not knowing_ is making him anxious. "If you don't wanna fool around, that's _fine._ We can just kiss, or talk, or whatever the hell it is you want. No strings attached. And if you don't want to do that, either, just tell me good night and go back to your messy-ass room. But I'm not gonna wait here in the doorway all night."

"I'm sorry, Juno. I just— forgive me, I— what _is_ it you want me to do?" He's clearly desperate, now, so Juno decides to humor him. 

"Honestly? In the grand scheme of things I want you to kiss me, touch me, sleep with me— next to me— whatever. Sit next to me at family meetings, maybe, or stay up late with me watching trashy streams when I can't sleep." Goddamnit. He hadn't been planning on saying that much, but once he got talking, it was hard to stop the whole truth from spilling out. "But right now? I want you to either let me go to bed, or stop standing out there and just come _in._ "

It's bizarre how quickly Nureyev transforms when he says that. He lets out a long breath, posture straightening minutely, pushing a stray lock of hair back into place. Wiping away a flake of crimson nail polish from his upper lip, he smiles wide, showing off those entrancing filed teeth. 

"Juno, love," he says, and maybe he says that to everyone but Juno's heart skips a beat anyways. "I thought you'd never ask."

The rest of the night goes, well. It goes well. Well enough that he sleeps through the night, for once. When he wakes up, the bed's empty, and he has a momentary thought of _I guess I deserve that_ , before noticing a note folded on his pillow. 

The handwriting's unmistakable. He knows it too well, knows the stupid little loops on every _b_ and _d_ , the lines thin enough that they must have been made by a goddamn fountain pen. 

_Dear detective,_ the note reads. _Last night was beyond description, and believe me when I tell you that leaving your arms pained me to the center of my heart. I am afraid I had business to attend to this morning, but I am holding my breath until I can see you at breakfast. I hope you won't be angry with me for leaving_ — _I find there's nothing worse than a cross lover._

_Still a fool,_

_P. N._

Juno rereads the note one or two (or ten) times, trying to commit every word to mind. It's the kind of thing that he'd mark down as evidence, if he were trying to solve a case. But for now, he just basks in the way his chest tightens at the last line every time. He's used to _wallowing_ , and it's nice to be able to _bask_ for once. 

He digs up an old turtleneck to wear to breakfast. Because he thinks it looks nice, okay? That's all. Christ, let a lady try something new once in a while without reading too much into it, Rita. 

The chair next to Nureyev is open, so that's where he sits down. Peter smells like hair gel and that cologne and a little bit like something else, too, something vaguely salty. Sweat, maybe? But Nureyev's clearly showered, so… 

The thief winks at him. "Good morning, beautiful," he says in that rich voice, and Juno decides that detective-ing can wait. Nureyev's allowed to have his secrets.

He isn't the only one who does, that's for sure. 


	2. mind distracted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rita tries her best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER 2!!! YEAEAEH GAMERS!! its that time of year. this ones got rita in it
> 
> as always comments and kudos are what fuel me to write stuff like this for you guys. so keep it up (please?)

There’s a whole lotta neat things in the galaxy, but Rita thinks that spaceships might just top them all. The way that you can look out the window and just see all the stars and the nothin’ space, too, stretching out and back so far that it makes her feel like one of those little bugs from that one movie where the bugs all clumped together and formed one giant bug and went and overthrew the government and banned pesticides. 

And if she’s a little ant compared to all that vastness stuff out there, her family— her  _ family!—  _ must be the big bug-mass thing. ‘Cuz when she’s with them, she feels like she matters. Like she’s part of somethin’ pretty great.

She wishes she didn’t have to hide the fact that she’s, okay, maybe got a few more skills than she let on. It ain’t like she lied, not hardly! Hacking servers and committing to git and typing  _ real fast  _ are what she was born and raised to do! 

And, well. Maybe a little bit of  _ the craft, _ on the side.

It ain’t anything big, no summoning demons or meddling with the grand order of fate or anything. And she’s real discreet about it, too. Got her brewing setup disguised as a storage space for food she’s squirreled away, hidden her arcane focus in a hollowed-out novel that she knows ain’t nobody on the ship gonna read cuz its cover is too heterophonic or somethin’. (It was a good book, and she had only hollowed it out when she knew she’d got every word stored away in her dome.)

Mistah Thief'd walked in on her once, just making some little fairy lights float around the room and spell out funny things, and she’d said it was just LEDs. He’d fallen for it, of course he had, cuz she might be on a ship with the best criminal minds in the galaxy but none of them know the first thing about technology. 

She wishes sometimes that she could tell them, but Mistah Steel’d told her not to. Told her he knows just how the world feels ‘bout people who, well, who aren’t quite people, and that he can’t say that the crew would still want ‘em around.

It’s a little lonely, sometimes. But it’s okay, because the boss knows about her, and sometimes even lets her make his tattoos come to life or change the color of his hair if he’s feeling real friendly. And when he’s mean to her, that’s okay too. They stick together, him keeping her from showin’ every pretty face just what she can do, her helping him through the worse times. Friendships ain’t hardly transactional, but she feels like she might be pullin’ the most weight there. She swears, that gal needs a babysitter sometimes.

Anyway. Like she was saying. Everything's better in deep space, even doin' chores, and today she’s on cooking duty! Back when she lived with Mistah Steel for a while, he’d banned her from kitchen magic of any kind, after the incident with the gingerbread men. But what Buddy doesn’t know ain’t gonna hurt her.

And she's gonna need all the magic she can get, because Mistah Nureyev-Ransom's on duty with her. She doesn't get how someone so, so, so  _ handsome _ could be so bad at cooking, cuz in all the streams the eye-candy men are always at home makin' pot roasts and stuff while their wives are off saving the world, but she guesses life ain't like the streams, except that she is on a spaceship with some pretty unique people stealing stuff. 

Aaaaanyways. Mistah Nureyev's coming into the kitchen now, so she's gotta stop thinking rude thoughts, in case he can read minds or somethin'. She knows there's something up with him, she can  _ feel _ the supernatural magic crackling offa him. Mistah Steel deserves to know, she thinks, if nothing else just so he don't have to hide hisself either, but it's not her place to tell. 

"Hello, Rita," he says, sauntering into the room, and Rita doesn't get how a guy can  _ saunter _ in six-inch heels. Maybe that's part of his magic. She doesn't ask.

Rita's gotten past the stage of having to remind herself that Nureyev ain't up for grabs, and she does her best to not even stare at him most of the time. And today she's gonna need to focus, real good. Focusin' definitely isn't her strong suit, not even her strong business-casual look, but  _ cooking _ isn't the thief's, either, and she ain't gonna let  _ any  _ harm come to her stir-fry. 

"Hi, Mistah— Ransom!" She waves at him, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "Really I don't mind if you wanna let me do the work here and you can just supervise, or go, I dunno, do your hair or make a scheme or whatever guys like you do in your free time, I got it here! Got it all under control, and I don't mind one bit! I like cooking a lot, and I—"

He cuts her off. "Rita, darling, it's a lovely offer, but it would hardly be fair of me to let you do all the work. Now, what are we making?" It's a dumb question, cuz there's a meals schedule and she's got all the ingredients and the recipe and the wok out just sitting on the counter and everything. She narrows her eyes, realizing Mistah Steel might not be the only one needin' a little babying sometimes. 

"Chicken stir fry," she tells him. "If you really wanna be helpful, you could boil some water and drop a few bouillon cubes in it for the sauce."  _ That should be hard to mess up, _ she doesn't say. 

  
  


It  _ should  _ have been hard to mess up, but Mistah Ransom's a man of many talents. By ten minutes in, he's already managed to fill up the whole kitchen with steam and made it smell real funny, too. 

She casts a quick little prestidigimatation, just to make sure the two of them don't suffocate in there like in some horror thriller. Nureyev blinks at her, spotting the bright-pink sparks coming out from her fingers. Oops.

"Didja see that, Ransom? Looked to me like there's a firefly in the kitchen or somethin'!" Look at her, coming up with that lie on the spot! Mama would be proud of her. 

"Rita, dear, fireflies have been extinct for centuries now." Okay, so maybe not the  _ best  _ lie. 

"I'unno, maybe a lightning bug, then! Are those the same thing? Maybe it was just light reflecting weird off all the steam. The steam  _ you _ made," she shakes her finger at him. "You know you can just help me set the table or something, yeah?"

"I'll do no such thing!" Mistah Nureyev almost sounds a little insulted, now, which is  _ so _ not fair because he did just almost smoke 'em out. "I shall do my fair share of chores around the ship, as I am a part of the family and I can cook just as well as anyone." He even sniffs a little at the end, real dramatic-like. 

Fine. Rita's gonna have to take drastic measures. 

  
  


The food doesn't come out lookin' too great. Well, that's an understatement, it comes out looking… kinda unrecognizable, to be honest. Rita's slapped a glamour on top of it just so it doesn't look inedible, but. It sure ain't stir fry anymore. 

"Hope it's good!" she says brightly, anyways. Watches as Juno takes his first bite. 

And starts coughin' up a lung. 

Rita panics. It's been a while since she's done any kitchen magic, but she's sure she ain't done anything to make it poisoned! Mostly sure, anyway. All up and down the table, everyone's staring at their plates like they came to life and insulted their moms, or somethin'. 

"Uhh," she supplies. "Is it, uh, is it okay?" Maybe even the magic that she'd practiced a while ago hadn't been enough to cover up Mistah Ransom's inability to tell an onion from a cauliflower. 

Miss Captain Buddy's the first one to return to normal. "It's excellent, Rita darling." She's doing that thing where she sounds nice but Rita knows her real nice voice well enough to know that, oh no, she's in trouble again… and yeah, there it is. "Oh, while I'm thinking about it, would you mind coming to my quarters after dinner? I just had something I meant to ask you."

Rita nods miserably. She looks down the table— Vespa's white-knuckling the butter knife next to her plate; Jet's not too shocked anymore, just looks mildly interested, which with the big guy could mean anything; Mistah Nureyev's real surprised, but he always is, and at least he isn't calling it  _ innnnncredible _ , and Juno… uh oh. He looks  _ mad _ , mad and a little sick too. 

"Mistah Steel," she says softly. "Are you okay? You ain't allergic to green pepper, are you?"

He stands up from the table, pushing the chair out from under him, and stomps off into the hallway. 

_ Of course _ Rita follows him. Sometimes that's all she thinks she can do.

"You wanna tell me," he says once they're far enough from the dining room, "when you got the recipe for the sauce that they made at me and— at me and— fuck." He presses his knuckles against the bridge of his nose. "At me and Ben's favorite taco joint? Cuz I  _ know _ that you must've made that with your own two hands. Because I told you to  _ keep your magic to yourself. _ "

Rita thinks that this is probably one of those  _ rhetorical questions  _ that she's never really gotten the hang of. She also thinks that she's about to start crying. Mistah Steel ain't yelled at her like this in a while, and she figures that her tolerance for it has gone real down. 

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I didn't mean to cause anythin'. I dunno even what I did— I just—you know Mistah Ransom can't cook, and he was gonna mess up my dinner and we were gonna have to have frozen waffles  _ again _ , and I—" and there come the waterworks, and she feels even smaller than usual, wishing she had her big pointy hat now but that's hidden in the back of her closet. She sniffs and wipes at her eyes. "I guess I just wanted to show you guys that I could do somethin' other than turn off lights and cameras and make fake money show up. I just wanted it to be perfect, and you'd say  _ Rita, this stir-fry's so much better than anything we had back on Mars _ and Buddy would say that I could be the ship's chef too and Vespa wouldn't even laugh at me and— I dunno. I don't even know what went  _ wrong _ , everyone looked so  _ upset  _ and I just wanted it to be the best meal ever." 

Juno swears quietly under his breath, but he looks a lot less mad now. Score one for Cryin' Rita. "I figured it might have been something like that, yeah. Best meal ever, huh?"

"Yeah, I— oh." Rats, rats, rats. And darn too, for good measure. "I guess I maybe didn't think about what that might mean."

The boss is nodding, now, jaw set like when he's tryin' to figure out a real tricky case. "Okay. Buddy's gonna have picked up on it, for sure, she wants to talk to you. The big guy— I dunno, but he didn't look too pissed off. Ransom's probably— I can do damage control with him, but…"

Rita nods miserably. "I know. And I gotta go talk to Buddy, too. I'm real sorry, boss."

Juno does that kinda sigh that Rita thinks can't be good for his ribs, real deep and like he's a deflating balloon. "It's okay, Rita. Just— if you can keep it under wraps, just try. Please? And, uh, my— don't tell her about my whole deal. Seriously. Or you're fired, and I don't mean it in our way." 

"Got it, boss," she says, still a little tearfully. 

"Hey. Rita." Then he does somethin' that would've meant Juno-from-two-years-ago was possessed. He kneels down next to her and spreads his arms. 

Rita's still awful surprised— Mistah Steel may be gettin' better about his feelings and everything, but he still ain't a hugging kinda lady most of the time. She doesn't look a gift cephalopod in the mouth, though, and sorta topples forwards into his arms. 

"I know what it's like to screw stuff up when you're just trying to help," he says, not quite looking at her. "It was a stupid thing to do, but don't beat yourself up over it, okay?" Well, Rita's not a  _ beating-herself-up  _ girl really, more of a  _ short-term-memory-suppressing _ type, but she knows the sentiment's there. 

"Thanks, Mistah Steel," she says into his shoulder. 

He pats her back sorta awkwardly, like he don't know what he's supposed to be doing. Opens his mouth, then closes it again, like a koi fish.

”You okay, boss?” Even if it means she’s gonna get yelled at some more, she knows it’s healthy for Mistah Steel to get to say what he’s thinking.

He blinks slowly. “Oh. Yeah. Just thinking.”

”That’s good! It’s always a good thing to be thinkin’, that’s my motto. Whatcha thinking _about?_ ” Maybe she’s pushing it, now, but Rita knows the look of someone who’s got something bugging them to be keepin’ in their head. 

She’s gotten real good at telling how the boss is feeling from his sighs and grunts, like a mood ring. The one he lets out now... she’s not quite sure what to make of it, but she doesn’t think she’s in trouble anymore, which is... good?

“We used to go there after school, when we had pocket change. With Sasha and Mick and, and, and Annie sometimes, too.” _Annie’_ s a name she doesn’t think she’s heard, but he says it in the same way he says _Benten,_ so Rita doesn’t ask. “It was... I miss those days.” This time, his sigh is kinda tired, choppy the edges. 

”Oh, boss...” She hugs him a little tighter. “I’m real sorry. I really didn’t mean to bring any of that stuff back or anythin’.”

Juno shakes his head. “S’okay. I guess it’s healthy to think about this kinda stuff. Better than forgetting it, probably.”

”Yeah. Probably so.” Maybe sometime later, when they’re watching a stream or she’s doing his hair or something, she’ll bring it up again, try to get him to talk more about it. _Juno-two-years-ago_ would’ve yelled at her about it, but people change, don’t they, and it ain’t any clearer in anyone in the galaxy than Mistah Steel. 

"I'm gonna go to my room, I had a big lunch. Good luck with the captain, Rita," he tells her. 

"Okay, boss." 

"Not your boss anymore." He lets her free from the hug and heads off. 

Vespa ain't at the table either when Rita gets back. None of the others say anything, maybe 'cuz it's pretty clear she's been crying, and the silent meal is really awkward but she hardly doesn't notice 'cuz her stir-fry tastes like this incredible squid that she once had when her high school boyfriend snuck her into a rich people food festival. 

And when everyone leaves the table, when Buddy raises her eyebrows at Rita before leaving ("Be right with ya, m— Captain!"), she pops a few frozen waffles in the toaster, slices up some strawberries with her own two hands, and takes it all to Mistah Steel in his room. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RITA’S A WITCH who saw that one coming?? what’s juno hiding?? why is nureyev so bad at cooking?? leave a comment. down below. and smash that kudos button. please

**Author's Note:**

> you know the drill. comment and kudos and tell me your favorite part. or i'll show up at your house on halloween with a chainsaw (but also a surgical mask. safety first)


End file.
